


Beneath the Yew-Tree

by BelladonnaLee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Dark Fairy Tale Elements, Don't copy to another site, Gothic, Haunting, Loneliness, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Obsession, The Interplay of Eros and Thanatos, Winter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:40:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29429694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BelladonnaLee/pseuds/BelladonnaLee
Summary: Caught in a vicious ice storm, Harry trudges across a barren field towards a frozen yew-tree and a tumbledown house, not knowing what—or who—he might find on this long and lonely winter night.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 6
Kudos: 41
Collections: My Bloody Valentine 2021





	Beneath the Yew-Tree

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: The world of Harry Potter and its characters are not mine.
> 
> A/N: Happy Valentine's Day. Thank you for reading.

Bowing his head against the bracing wind, Harry trudged across the barren field towards the only house visible in many a mile. Ice pellets stung his numb face; they clung to the forelocks of his raven hair and his ragged, travel-worn cloak, glittering like crystals and diamonds in the frigid night. Shielding his eyes, he squinted at the house ahead, which was dwarfed by the great yew-tree beside it. Ancient and gnarled, the tree was encased in ice, its branches dangling with frozen teardrops.

As he got closer, he found the house more tumbledown than at a glance from a distance. Some of the windows were broken, and some of the roof shingles were missing, exposing the wooden frame underneath. The front of the house seemed intact, however, and the door was shut against the storm.

Candlelight flickered behind one of the upper-storey windows, catching his attention. In the next beat, only darkness remained. Perhaps he was imagining lights and shadows and shades that were not there except inside his head, he thought wryly to himself. Or perhaps there was someone in the house after all—a resident, a traveller, or something more sinister. He did not fear ghosts or the dead; the living unsettled him more.

Hungry and weary and chilled to the bone from his long roam through the winter desolation, he wanted nothing more than a place he could shelter from the cold and rest. And the house, however ramshackle it appeared to be, would do for the night.

Out of courtesy he knocked on the door; there was no answer. He tried the ice-crusted door knob, and with some effort he managed to open the door, which was left unlocked. Shadows awaited within, and he was not afraid. Without further ado he stepped into the house and closed the door behind him, shutting out the howling wind and the stinging ice. When he turned around, however, something had changed.

Silence permeated the entrance hall, which, to his surprise, was now fully furnished and lit with candlelight. A long, thick carpet lay upon the polished wooden floor, looking new and unused beneath his dirty boots. A bowl of holly, ivy, pine cones and yew branches sat upon an ebony table, above which hung a silver-gilded mirror untarnished by time or neglect. There was a pleasant scent in the air, a scent of warm spice that reminded him of the home he had dreamt of.

Had he somehow stumbled into a dream? Harry could not help but wonder as ice crystals melted and soaked into his cloak. Perhaps in reality he was still out there in the cold, sleeping a deep, endless sleep beneath a layer of ice. Then again, perhaps this house was the home of a wizard or a witch. He reached for his wand—and did not find it. He had not brought his wand with him, he remembered.

Keeping his calm as best as he could, he took a deep breath before calling out to someone, anyone. "Hello? Is anyone here?" His voice sounded hoarse to his ear. "Excuse me, but I've lost my way in the storm. May I stay here for the night?" There was nothing but silence.

Golden candlelight led further into the entrails of the house, promising comfort and warmth and a mystery waiting to be solved. The warmth was too inviting and the mystery too tempting. His curiosity piqued and his pulse quickened, he ventured further into the house.

The sitting room was furnished with antique furniture polished to a dark sheen. Velvet draperies veiled the windows; damask wallpaper covered the walls. A fire was burning in the hearth, and by the fireside was a spread of food on the table set for one: cold dishes, cheese, fruits, a loaf of bread with butter, warm treacle tarts with clotted cream, and a pot of steaming soup. There was also a jar of water and a pot of tea that smelled faintly of citrus.

A cuckoo clock ticked and tocked on the wall, counting down the seconds towards oblivion. The fire crackled like the cracking of thin ice underfoot. There was no one about; Harry could not feel any presence in the house either, be it the living or the dead.

Feeling the heat of the flame, he took off his gloves, his cloak, his boots, and he sat by the fire to warm his cold limbs. His throat was parched, and his stomach grumbled with pangs of hunger. Eyeing the food on the table, he poured himself a glass of water and drank a mouthful, a second mouthful, a third mouthful. The lukewarm water helped ease his thirst and some of his hunger, if barely.

After a moment of hesitation, he picked a blood red apple from the fruit bowl and took a bite, a second bite, a third bite. Before long he had finished the whole apple, leaving only the core behind, and he gnawed at the core, sucking out the last bit of pulp and juice.

Succumbing to his hunger and thirst, he gorged himself on the food and washed everything down with warm, sweet tea. The food was good, and the tea soothed his parched throat. There were barely any scraps left on the table by the time he was done.

Watered and fed, he leant into the embrace of the over-stuffed armchair, his eyelids drooping and his head nodding. The fire burnt low, and the hypnotic tick-tocking of the cuckoo clock cast a spell over him. Shadows closed in around him, binding him with their incorporeal tentacles and pulling him into the deep. With some effort he snapped himself awake and sat upright. Dragging himself out of the chair, he put on his boots and explored the house further.

Candlelight swayed and shadows stirred as Harry climbed the narrow staircase, the sound of his footsteps echoing beneath the high ceiling. Stepping onto the landing, he strolled down the glossy black corridor, opening and closing doors as he went: a study with books for walls; a black-and-white bathroom adorned with a wrought-iron chandelier; an empty broom cupboard; and bedrooms with sturdy wardrobes and large, comfortable beds.

At the end of the corridor hung a painting of a serpent entwined with a naked man. Eyes half-closed and fingers cupping the serpent's jaw, the man darted out his tongue, as if to catch the venom dripping down the serpent's fangs, as if to tangle his tongue with the serpent's forked tongue. They were almost like lovers, the serpent and the man. Harry's heart skipped a beat, and a surge of heat flared up inside him.

Averting his gaze, he turned around and walked back towards the stairs—and he stopped dead in his tracks. The bathroom door was ajar; light spilled out from within and onto the corridor's pitch-black floor. With racing heartbeat he went over and pushed the door wide open. The chandelier glowed with flickering candles; warm moist air touched his face. There was no one about.

Compelled by curiosity and morbid fascination, he stepped into the bathroom. The once empty claw-footed bathtub was now filled with clean hot water. Dried linden flowers floated in the water like miniature yellow fireworks. Someone or something knew what he desired and worked to fulfil his wishes.

 _Maybe it's the house,_ he thought half-heartedly as he kicked off his boots, took off his glasses, and stripped himself bare. His body moving of its own accord, he climbed into the bathtub, lowered himself into the water, and breathed a satisfied sigh. The air smelled faintly of herbs and of soap; wisps of steam eddied in the lamplight.

Soaking in everything around him, he tried to make sense of it all, but his mind wandered, as if a fog was clouding his head. He should keep up his vigilance, he knew. Nevertheless, a sense of apathy came over him. It was too late: he was ensnared, body and soul, in a dream that might not be a dream at all. Anticipation and trepidation coursed through him like blood.

After washing himself thoroughly from head to toe, he slipped on the white woollen robe that was left on a chair, neatly folded—a robe that was prepared for him. _White for human sacrifice,_ a voice whispered in his head as he tied the belt around his waist and put on his glasses. Leaving his clothes strewn about on the tiled floor, he sauntered barefoot into the corridor and wandered into one of the bedrooms.

The green bedroom was cosy and warm with firelight, the dark brocade curtains were drawn, and the four-poster bed was made. A candle guttered on the bedside table, and a glass cup of mulled wine sat beside the candle, waiting to be drunk. Feeling the thirst, Harry picked up the cup and sipped the ruby red liquid. It was warm and sweet with a hint of spice and citrus. He drank some more and left the cup on the table.

When he slipped beneath the cover of the bed, he felt warmth, as if someone had warmed the bed for him beforehand. How long had it been since the last time he was being pampered like this? He could not remember anymore. Smiling a self-deprecating smile, he blew out the candle, placed his glasses on the table, and lay down to sleep. As he ran his hand over the silken sheet and the empty space beside him, he felt more alone than ever in this empty house in the middle of an ice storm. It was as though he were the only one left in this frozen world.

If he were to wish for a companion, would his wish be granted?

"Won't you show yourself?" he murmured to the walls, to the shadows, to the firelight. Nothing stirred in the dimness of the room. "Thank you for letting me stay. Please don't stuff me in the oven or chop me up and make blood pudding out of me while I sleep. Good night." Sleep came to him like a shadow and swallowed him whole—and he knew no more after that.

Floating in the space between sleep and waking, he was dimly aware of someone leaning over him. Cool, dry lips silenced his lips in a long, lingering kiss, and a tongue tangled with his tongue, their spittle mixing. In the haze that was half-dream and half-reality, he could not tell if the stranger's tongue was forked or not. A cool hand slipped under his robe, fondling him, and he gasped into the stranger's mouth. A tingling sensation spread from the tip of his spine to the base of his skull, and a different kind of hunger took hold of him.

When the stranger broke off the kiss, Harry opened his eyes and found the room awash in shadow, edged with the faintest of firelight beyond the foot of the bed. A figure was hovering over him, its face shrouded by the night. Nevertheless, he could feel the figure's gaze on him, studying him and appraising him.

"Are you the master of the house or the man of my dream?" Harry asked. The stranger laughed, a sound that stirred up an unsettling feeling inside him. He had heard the voice before—in a half-forgotten nightmare. "Who are you?"

Without a word the stranger bent down and caught Harry's lips in a tantalising kiss, smothering his queries and his reason. Breathless and dazed, Harry wrapped his arms around the stranger and returned the kiss. It was all he could do—all he needed to do. The stranger's skin was cool and dry and somewhat rough beneath his hands. Like the skin of a snake, he thought.

He did not object when the stranger untied the belt and pulled the robe apart, leaving him exposed to the stranger's kisses and touch, naked skin to naked skin. He was warm, too warm; his heart was pounding in his chest, and his groin was throbbing with desire and need. He was panting, panting for more. He fumbled around under the blanket and found the stranger's penis hard and erected. The man shivered and hissed.

Even though Harry felt certain he had never been with this man before, they complemented each other in every way like long-time lovers. They were two snakes devouring each other's tail, a closed, full circle without a beginning or an end. Pleasure and desire fed into each other in an endless loop. It did not matter if the man was a feverish dream or an illusion or in the flesh. It did not matter if the man was granting him his wish or extracting payment from him. He was no longer alone.

With a shudder he came, shattering and scattering in the man's mouth. For a moment or two, he could hear nothing but panting and racing heartbeat and the rustling of the sheet. At length the man sat up and settled himself between Harry's legs. His mind empty of all thoughts, Harry raised his arms over his head and let the man open him up for what was to come.

Inevitability came like fate, like lightning, like a prophecy. Sucking in a deep breath, Harry let it out ever so slowly, ever so shakily, and the man breathed with him, sinking into him and rocking with him. Before long the man stopped. Feverish and disoriented, Harry looked up with those moist green eyes of his. The contour of the man's face had become ever more defined, though his expression remained obscured by the night.

"Do you remember?" the man asked, his voice soft and low with a hint of a hiss.

A thrill ran down Harry's spine like an icy finger, and the night grew ever deeper. How could he not recognise the voice of the man who had nearly killed him and whom he had killed? "Tom Riddle," he whispered. "You are dead."

"Why yes, you killed me." The man—Tom Riddle, Lord Voldemort, You-Know-Who—sounded amused. "And you buried me beneath a yew-tree."

His pulse quickened and his insides throbbing with the presence of his dead enemy, Harry took a long, deep breath and collected his thoughts. Somehow he was neither as surprised nor as disturbed as he ought to be. He squinted at the silhouette of the man above him; dim firelight outlined the shape of the man's head. Was he staring at the face of the handsome Tom Riddle, or the vaguely unnatural visage of Lord Voldemort?

"No one knew what to do with your body after your death," Harry remarked. "No, they just didn't want anything to do with you anymore. They had suffered enough while you were alive."

"And so you took on the dirty work no one wanted. How typical." Riddle reached out and stroked Harry's face with unexpected gentleness; in the next beat, his hand glided downwards and clenched Harry's throat. "Those people milked you for all that you were worth, Harry. They still do."

"That's for me to judge," Harry said coolly, and Riddle laughed, a cold laughter like the breaking of ice. "What are you doing here?"

"You wished for company on this long, dark night, did you not?" Riddle murmured while running his calloused hand along Harry's torso—exploring, caressing, provoking. "Are you lonely, Harry?"

Harry thought about his married friends. He thought about past lovers and hurts and heartbreaks he could not feel. _There's a part of you missing,_ a former lover once said. He thought about those nights when he drowned himself in sleeping potion and those nights when he did not. He thought about those quiet dark hours before dawn when he lay awake and alone in bed, visited by ghosts of his imagining. They were like old friends, him and his ghosts.

"Even if I am, you are the last person I want to see."

"I wonder about that." Ever so leisurely Riddle began moving inside Harry, as if wanting to make every thrust last. A tremor coursed through Harry's body, and a moan escaped his lips. "After all, I am here—inside you."

"It's just a dream," Harry panted, but the sensations in his body felt all too real. "An illusion."

Riddle chuckled and wrapped his fingers around Harry's wrist. "And yet you let an illusion make love to you. I worry for your sanity." Harry held his tongue and tried to catch his breath. "You cannot forget me. How could you? I was your first kill." A pause. "Your pulse is racing. Are you afraid—or aroused?"

With a shiver Harry closed his eyes; a flicker of desire morphed into a flicker of pleasure. "I'm not afraid of you," he retorted, his voice barely a mumble.

"Good." Riddle sounded pleased, and staying still inside Harry, he traced symbols and words on Harry's skin with his finger. "Do you know the story of _The Juniper-Tree_?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"What if it is not merely a story?" There was a wry note in Riddle's voice. A pair of hands ran up and down along Harry's sides like the hands of an artist moulding a figure out of clay. "Now tell me. What is your wish?"

A touch of chill prickled Harry's skin; he felt his hair standing on end and gooseflesh forming on his body. Riddle's hands were strangely warm, and his touch warmer still, as if he had robbed Harry of his body heat and taken it all into himself. In the depth of his consciousness, Harry pictured a serpent twining around his body, jaw open and venomous fangs bared, tempting him with a drop of elixir that might be love or death.

Jolted out of his imagining, he opened his eyes and stared at the figure who might or might not be Tom Riddle. The man was waiting, waiting patiently for the moment to strike and to feast upon his body. Struck by a flash of resentment, Harry grabbed Riddle's arm and dug his nails into Riddle's skin. A beat, two beats, three beats—Riddle was silent and still as eternity. Drawing in a breath, Harry loosened his grip, fixed his gaze upon the shadow-shrouded face, and uttered his wish.

"I see," Riddle said quietly. The mockery in his voice had fallen away; only a terrible, death-like calm remained. Clutching Harry's thighs, he leant forward and picked up where he left off, one tantalising thrust at a time. "Let's die together, shall we?"

On this wild, cursed night, they tumbled and shook on the rumpled sheet, tearing and killing and devouring each other. His hands wrapped around Riddle's neck, Harry straddled Riddle and strangled him. Riddle was gagging and struggling to breathe, the choking sound he made overlapping with Harry's panting. Fingers clawed at Harry's arms, leaving behind red marks and bloody scratches, but Harry barely felt the pain.

Afterwards they lay on the bed, side by side and face to face, spent and sweaty and scarred. Their faces were so close Harry could feel Riddle's warm breath on his lips, and he was no longer certain if Riddle had ever died in the first place. On this long and lonely winter night, they could be living or dying or dead, and it would not make a difference.

"I am never just a memory to you, Harry." Riddle breathed words into Harry's mouth, words that were like a spell or a curse. "Never was and never will be."

"No, you are a ghost." Snaking his arm around Riddle, Harry cradled Riddle's head and entangled his legs with Riddle's legs, ensnaring him as surely as he himself was ensnared. "You are my ghost."

Letting out a chuckle, Riddle slipped his arm around Harry and pressed his brow against Harry's brow, as if he and Harry were mirror image of one another. "And you are mine." A beat. "How did you feel when you killed me?"

Harry did not answer; instead, he closed his eyes and inhaled Riddle's breath, which smelled of earth and rotten wood. It reminded him of a yew-tree rustling in the wind, a drizzle he could almost feel on his skin, and a hole in the ground, deep and wide enough for two people to be buried in. He was standing over the hole, looking down, and in his dream, he let himself fall into the hole and into oblivion.

* * * * * * *

In the everlasting night he stirred, and heartbeat by heartbeat he returned to life. Reaching out, he tore away the membrane of sleep over his eyes and blinked. A figure lay entwined with him like a serpent, sound asleep and silent as the dead. In the dim light, he could just make out the figure's face; it was the face of a certain someone who killed him and whom he had killed.

There was a chill in the air, and the air tasted of sex and death and a certain someone's scent. He inhaled deeply, letting the scent fill his senses, his body, his mind, his fractured psyche. They were naked, him and that certain someone, in this liminal darkness.

Drawn to that certain someone's warmth, he leant forward and tentatively ran his tongue over that certain someone's lips, which tasted faintly of mulled wine and of something at once familiar and strange. As he felt those lips parted for him, he slipped his tongue inside the warm mouth and kissed his sleeping companion, who let out a murmuring sound and did not wake. It seemed he was not that certain someone's prince after all.

After one last lingering kiss, he drew away and cradled that certain someone in his arms; a pair of arms tightened around him in turn. For a heartbeat or two, he felt whole and complete, as if his other half had returned to him at long last. His thin lips twisted into a wry curve, he took that certain someone's hand in his hand and laced their fingers together. A heartbeat later, that certain someone gripped his hand and nestled against him.

Perhaps he and that certain someone were lying on a silken bed or buried beneath the earth, and none of it mattered, for the one he longed for was slumbering by his side—his nemesis, his Psyche, his death. Smiling a serpent's smile, he pressed a chaste kiss upon that certain someone's lips.

"You are never alone, Harry," he whispered in his serpent's tongue the sweet poison that was his words of love. "Never was and never will be." Taking in the warmth, the breaths and the heartbeats of that certain someone who was his lover and his ghost, he closed his eyes and waited for dawn to break.

* * * * * * *

_Finis._


End file.
